


oh, simple thing

by noahmss



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahmss/pseuds/noahmss
Summary: Illya’s eyes snap to Napoleon. There is something in the American’s eyes that he can’t quite decipher. It’s scorching in its intensity, but before he has the chance to understand it Napoleon is moving, swift and smooth like the waves of the ocean. He shoves Illya away with a strength that must come from adrenaline, and the Russian stumbles back, slamming into the vault door. He can do nothing but watch as Napoleon throws himself on the bomb.





	oh, simple thing

The mission should have been a simple one. Céline Dioges, wife of an influential millionaire, had come to possess rather distasteful information regarding the French Prime Minister. Waverly hadn't told them what, exactly, only that he had personally received a plea to retrieve the evidence. They were given plans of the estate, invitations to a party her husband was throwing in a week, and information about the involved parties. Get in, get the evidence, get out. Couldn’t have been more straightforward.

Illya should have known better than to trust Napoleon’s cocky smirk and flippant tone. Villains rarely hatched plots so simple that U.N.C.L.E. could contain them all in a handy file.

It had all gone so smoothly at first. Too smoothly. Illya should have seen the trap, would have seen the trap had he not been…distracted.

The evidence sat in an unguarded vault, a fruit ripe for the taking. That was the first clue. Why leave such valuable information unattended to before the great unveiling? But Illya had been distracted, but many things all at once. The vault was filled with other costly items put in storage. There were gold-framed paintings pushed into one corner, a few pieces of furniture shrouded in sheets to protect them from dust, a marble statue of a gladiator…And Napoleon had looked over at him, darted his tongue out to wet his lips, and swept his arm over the room with an uttered “Shall we.”

So yes. Distracted.

Love has made him a terrible spy.

Of course, by the time he’d recovered, the heavy vault door was swinging shut with a clang that spoke of finality. And now here they are.

“Sit down, Solo. Evidence will not be here, if this is a trap. It is a waste of energy.”

Napoleon shoots him a look but doesn’t argue. He sits on the floor by Illya’s side despite the outline of what clearly is an elegant armchair underneath one of the sheets, close enough that their sides brush, and the Russian feels tenderness welling up inside him before he hardens his heart and remembers where they are.

“We’re locked in with a limited supply of oxygen in the estate of a couple who, if I remember the file correctly, have no qualms about committing a few little murders here and there. Forgive me if I’m eager to get out, Peril.” The words come out of Napoleon’s mouth like a soft hiss, breathed out under the fluorescent lights of the vault.

“I have already sent distress signal. Gaby will be here with reinforcements soon.”

“Ever the damsels in distress.”

Illya opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by a voice which is neither his nor Napoleon’s.

“Hello, boys,” says the voice. It comes from a speaker somewhere in the room, and both Illya and Napoleon are on their feet in a flash, ready for whatever new threat may come. “Not very nice of you to snoop around in private affairs. Hardly the behaviour of a good guest.”

The voice is, Illya assumes, Céline Dioges. Her accent is melodic and her tone light, but he feels Napoleon tense beside him nonetheless, and his own shoulders tighten at the sound.

“I’m afraid we can’t talk too long.”

Illya hears a mechanical whir and looks up just in time to see something that his trained eye recognizes as a bomb drop from a trapdoor in the ceiling, landing at their feet.

Illya’s eyes snap to Napoleon. There is something in the American’s eyes that he can’t quite decipher. It’s scorching in its intensity, but before he has the chance to understand it Napoleon is moving, swift and smooth like the waves of the ocean. He shoves Illya away with a strength that must come from adrenaline, and the Russian stumbles back, slamming into the vault door. He can do nothing but watch as Napoleon throws himself on the bomb.

There is so much he has not said, and now there is no more time.

This is everyone one of Illya’s worst nightmares come true. His heart stops in his chest, stutters over a few beats. It has nothing to do with the explosive about to blow and everything to do with the American man lying on a deadly weapon in some desperate attempt to save his partner.

The seconds stretch on and nothing happens.

“Gave you a good fright, didn’t I?” comes over the speakers, and Illya swears it is accompanied by a cackle.

Illya tears towards Napoleon, blind with something that isn’t quite rage. He sinks to his knees and his hands drag along the American’s sides almost frantically, hauling him up against Illya’s chest. It is as though visual confirmation that Napoleon is okay is not enough. Illya’s hands wander out of his control. They brush along the pulse point on Napoleon’s neck and come up to find his face, tracing the lines of a body that is most definitely not blown apart. His heart is beating a thousand miles a second, or perhaps not at all.

Illya has never felt relief like this before.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

Napoleon is warm and alive under his fingers, and when their eyes meet he understand the intensity he had seen earlier. The floodgates have opened and, were Illya not a staunch atheist, he would call it a divine revelation. Nothing else could explain the light suddenly illuminating what had so long been kept in the shadows.

“You are in love with me.” The words fall heavy from Illya’s lips. It isn’t a question, nor is it quite a statement. Either way, it’s the wrong thing to say, that much he knows. He knows it as soon as the words escape his mouth, but he has no filter right now. He should explain, should tell Napoleon how he feels, should—

“Of course,” Napoleon says, and Illya is devastated.

As simple as that.

The vault door opens with a bang.

“My, my, my, what a show.”

Illya’s hands fly away from Napoleon’s face.

“I’m surprised, I must admit. I didn’t think my experiment would be quite so fruitful.” She gestures at them and two rows of armed guards file into the vault, guns trained on the two of them. “Stand up and put your hands in the air.”

Illya rises to his feet slowly. His hands are fists at his sides, his nails digging through skin and drawing blood. He forces himself to relax his fingers one by one, slow and steady, raising his arms in the air. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Napoleon doing the same.

“I thought U.N.C.L.E. agents would be harder to catch.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Napoleon replies, and his usual mask of the ever-flirtatious art thief is back on. A cheeky smirk dances on his lips.

“I know a way you can make up for it.” Céline smiles, sharp and predatory. “I know who you are, Napoleon Solo. I know what you’re good at. I have a proposal.”

“So forward,” Napoleon purrs, and Illya shivers despite himself. “At least buy me dinner first.”

Céline laughs, light as a wind chime in the summer air. The sound is wholly out of place under the artificial lights of the vault and in the stifling atmosphere of the situation.

“You are quite the charmer. But I am afraid this is a different kind of proposal.” She isn’t as easily taken by Napoleon’s pretty words, but Illya doesn’t miss the way her eyes rake up the American’s frame. “Praises of your skills are sung in certain circles that I have come to be a part of. There are a few pieces I have had my eye on, and I’m sure you will have no trouble acquiring them for me.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“In exchange, I keep your Russian friend here alive. I’m sure you’ll find that to be quite sufficient reward.”

Her smile only grows wider when Napoleon clenches his jaw.

“This is ridiculous,” Illya snaps just as Napoleon says: “Make that alive and unharmed, and you have a deal.”

Céline laughs again, and Illya’s hands curl back into fists. His vision goes red on the edges, and it’s only the knowledge that she has guns trained on Napoleon that keeps him from launching himself across the space between them and strangling the sound from her throat.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll see you later then.” She gestures at them vaguely. “Take them to the cells.”

More guards than he can count descend on him and try to wrestle cuffs onto his wrists and ankles. He elbows one of them in the face, hearing the satisfying crack of a broken nose, and gets another in a chokehold before being overpowered. They drag him out of the vault, Napoleon before him, and through the luxurious halls of the Dioges villa.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Illya hisses in Russian as they are shoved down a flight of stairs.

“ _We were overpowered. I needed to buy us time._ ”

Napoleon’s accent is dreadful, and Illya feels something warm and fond well up in him. Love has made him an idiot.

“ _You said yourself, you’ve already sent a distress signal. Now we just have to wait._ ” Napoleon shoots him a quick look over his shoulder. “ _Don’t worry, Peril._ ”

Illya stubbornly plows on.

“ _Your move with the bomb was a stupid gamble. The bomb could have easily killed us both anyways._ ”

Napoleon glances over his shoulder again, but this time his face is arranged in a withering glare.

“ _There was a chance it would have only killed me, instead of both of us. A slim chance, maybe, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing to lose, anyways._ ”

Illya knows he’s right, to a certain degree, but he can’t bring himself to admit it. When said like that it sounds so easy. One life instead of two. Nothing to lose. But nothing is so simple when it comes to Napoleon.

They are brought to the cells after what seems like an eternity in the maze of the estate. The guards unlock the handcuffs and throw them in with little ceremony, separating them by a barrier of metal bars. Illya stumbles, off balance thanks to the metal restraints still firmly wrapped around his ankles. The cell is surprisingly clean compared to others Illya has found himself in before, clearly new and unused. There is a cot in one corner, a sink and toilet in the other, and not much else. As far as captivity goes, though, it isn’t all that bad.

Napoleon sits down on the cot in his cell, looking oddly small for a man who’d thrown himself on a bomb and then signed away his freedom to a villainous frenchwoman without batting an eyelash.

“Solo? Napoleon?” No response. “Cowboy?”

“What do you want, Peril.”

“What you said before Céline—”

Napoleon’s eyes are fixed on the ground and his face twisted into something pained.

“Look,” Napoleon starts before he can even finish, “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Fuck, Illya, everyone else knows. I’m not exactly subtle. I thought— I thought you knew and you kept quiet to spare my feelings. It was fine, more than I deserved, really.” He lets a little laugh bubble out of his throat, an ugly sound that Illya wants to catch in his hands and smother. “But I guess you didn’t know, did you? I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I’m sorry you had to find out at all.”

He stops, and looks up at Illya expectantly. His cheek are stained red with embarrassment, and his mouth is turned down into the shadow of a grimace. He is almost folded in on himself on the cot, shoulders bunched together, back curved, and arms tight by his side as if to shield himself from something. Still, he is the most beautiful thing Illya has ever seen.

“Find what out?” Illya asks, and he doesn’t miss the desperate quality to his voice.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Please.”

Napoleon’s face crumples.

“I love you.”

Hearing the words from Napoleon’s mouth is like a blow to the chest. Illya feels like a drowning man finally washed ashore. He can feel his pulse thrumming under his skin, and suddenly he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. He leans his forehead against the bars between them, loosely wrapping his fingers around them as he finds the right words.

“When you jumped on that bomb,” Illya’s voice dies in his throat, and he has to clear it before he can go on, “I thought you were going to die. And those were worst seconds of my life. Never do something like that again.” He thinks about the words that follow carefully, not wanting anything to be misunderstood. “I said wrong thing, before, when I realized the bomb was fake, and then we were interrupted before I could correct mistake. I should have said that I love you too.”

A slow smile starts on Napoleon’s face, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind the clouds on a rainy day.

“You love me?”

“Of course,” Illya echoes.

Napoleon stands and walks until they are face to face. He reaches a hand through the bars, bringing it up to Illya’s jaw and tracing the lines of his lips with his thumb.

“May I?”

In lieu of an answer Illya inches forwards to press his lips against Napoleon’s.

The kiss is soft, almost hesitant, more a dry press of lips that anything else. The bars dig into his face, but Illya finds that he doesn’t mind it at all. Something curls in the pit of his stomach. It’s contentment, tenderness, affection, and a thousand other emotions all at once. When they pull apart, there is a wonder on Napoleon’s face that Illya knows is mirrored on his own.

The moment is broken by an alarm blaring at top volume throughout the estate. They hear shouts and people running, and a hail of gunfire somewhere outside the cell. Napoleon looks at him with bright eyes and a smile stretching his lips, and if possible Illya falls a little more in love with him.

“That’ll be Gaby with the reinforcements.”


End file.
